


Exposure

by withdiamonds



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-02-21
Updated: 2001-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:31:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdiamonds/pseuds/withdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair deal with TSbBS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposure

**Author's Note:**

> Written way back in 2001, song lyrics included.

I’m sorry ‘bout the attitude

I need to take when I’m with you

But no one else would take this shit from me

And I’m so terrified of no one else but you.

~~Matchbox 20~~ Long Day

*****

 

Halfway down the stairs, Blair's knees began to wobble and he sat down abruptly on the fourth step from the top. His heart pounded, and he buried his face in the pile of Jim's underwear clutched to his chest. Oh shit, he didn't need this right now. Breathe, he told himself sternly. Get a fucking grip.

Jim was coming home from the hospital today. He'd been there three days, and Blair was sure the only reason the doctors hadn't released him sooner was that _they_ didn't have to spend 24/7 with him like the nurses did. He was using a cane, so Blair was attempting to clean up his old room for them to sleep in, thus eliminating any need for Jim to try and prove he could handle the stairs.

Blair could have used a little more down time. Naturally, he was glad Jim felt better, but Blair needed time and space for some serious healing of his own. Plus, he knew Jim could be a pretty grumpy convalescent when he put his mind to it. Let's face it, he was a nervous wreck here.

Blair took deep calming breaths, after removing his face from Jim's underwear, since the smell of fabric softener was contributing to his dizziness. This was so not the time for a panic attack. He wanted to move whatever else Jim might need downstairs. And he better get going, because it was a sure bet Jim would want more than underwear for the next week or two.

After that fucking psychopath Karl Zeller shot Jim in the leg, then plummeted off the roof of the police station, Blair had spent the next three days staring into space, alternated with staring at the walls of the loft. Sometimes he stared at the television, just for the variety. What the hell was he going to do now? After three days of contemplating his navel, he was no closer to an answer than he was to getting his fucking Ph.D.

He also tried to decide who he was more pissed at, Naomi or himself. He supposed it didn't matter which of them won that contest- they'd probably have it again, they always did. Blair couldn't believe he'd been so damn stupid, but he really couldn't hog all the credit himself for this particular fuck-up.

How many times had he been left to deal with the aftermath of Hurricane Naomi? She blew into his life, stirring up things that didn't concern her, then blew away again, leaving a trail of debris and destruction behind that sometimes took all his ingenuity to clear away. But this time, he thought she may have outdone herself. Blair couldn't for the life of him figure out how to fix this one.

Every once in a while, his mother did something so appallingly, mind-bogglingly brainless, that the phrase bird-witted could have been coined just for her. She didn't mean to hurt anyone, especially not Blair, and she always thought her motives beyond reproach. But disaster occurred nonetheless. And it had been his lot in life, as her adoring son, to fix what she broke, and try to protect her from the consequences. He was usually happy to do it. She was, after all, his mother.

Unsteadily, Blair got to his feet. He shook his head to clear it and tottered down the rest of the stairs, trailing underwear behind him. His heart had stopped trying to pound its way out of his chest like a rat in a trap, and for that he was grateful.

The idea of exposing Naomi to Jim's anger made him anxious, and he had been so sure he could stop the Sid Graham juggernaut. But Sid had fucking flattened him in his path like the proverbial pancake. And this time, he let his protective instincts jeopardize his relationship with the most important person in his life. That would be Jim, not Naomi. She was, after all, only his mother. The resulting rage left him shaken and vulnerable in its aftermath.

And now, Jim was coming home. Blair had visited him in the hospital, but they really didn't say much beyond, "Hey, how are you, when do you think you're coming home?" and, "You'd better clean up the damn bathroom before I get there." Blair didn't know what to say now, and he didn't know what Jim expected to hear. He didn't know anything anymore.

Blair perused his old bedroom. He had no idea where to put Jim's clothes. There were already piles of stuff everywhere. Trying to make this room livable and clean out his office at Rainier at the same time was maybe not such a great idea. He didn't think Jim would be thrilled with boxes and books stacked all over the living room, though. He dumped the underwear on the bed and sank down next to it. He didn't have the energy for this. He flopped back and regarded the ceiling without interest.

The night before the day of his downfall, the day he had lost everything except Jim, Naomi had gone to spend the evening with friends in the area. Blair recognized her need to escape the inhospitable atmosphere of the loft, and the hostility radiating between its other two occupants. He could hardly blame her. He felt a craven desire to run away with her.

They had arrived home late after the aborted attempt on Jack Bartley's life. Jim hung his jacket up and brushed by Blair, grazing his arm in passing, not acknowledging his presence. His face had been forbidding, the set of his shoulders implacable. He went up to bed without a word, and after washing his face, brushing his teeth, and trying to fucking think, and not panic, Blair followed him up.

He had paused at the top of the stairs, then gone over to the closet and taken his shirt off. Jim sat silently on his side of the bed, taking off his shoes. Blair took a deep breath, but Jim cut him off before he could get a word out. "Don't start, Sandburg. We're not doing this again. It's all been said."

Blair ignored the warning. "Jim, I can't believe you'd think I'd do this on purpose. I tried to _stop_ it."

"Sandburg, you left my name all over the fucking thing! Pretty slipshod methodology, if you ask me. And why the hell didn't you _tell_ me?" Jim surged to his feet, and Blair took a step backward at the dangerous look in his eyes. "You knew what was going on, and you just let it happen."

"I thought I could stop it. I didn't want you to know, okay? Naomi didn't mean-"

"Don't you fucking hide behind Naomi! You know I'd never-"

Blair moved closer, yelling now, poking at Jim's chest with his finger. "Never what? Let her see how angry you were? Say things that-"

Jim grabbed Blair's elbows, holding him at arms' length. "I would never hurt Naomi!" he roared.

"You're goddamn right you wouldn't!" They stood glaring at each other, breathing hard. Blair tried to catch his breath, to stop things from escalating any further.

Without warning, Jim jerked him close again, tightening the already iron grip on his arms. "How could you do this? I thought you loved me," he rasped, despair in his eyes. Then his mouth descended on Blair's, crushing him, bruising in its anger and intensity. Blair struggled to free himself, getting his palms on Jim's chest and shoving. "Get off me, you son of a bitch!" He shoved again and this time he caught Jim off balance, sending him sprawling backwards onto the bed.

Blair was on him in an instant, holding his shoulders down, kissing his mouth, biting his neck, pushing his tongue into his ear. The violence of his desire took him by surprise. This might be the only way he could reach Jim, and he used the urgent hunger that hummed between them, always there, waiting to crackle into life. Jim's hips arched up off the bed, as Blair ground his erection down onto the warm, hard body beneath his. Jim groaned, getting his arms around Blair's back, his hands on Blair's ass, pulling him down, increasing the pressure between them. They rutted on the bed, grunting curses, teeth clicking, noses colliding as their mouths came together in an angry kiss.

Blair moved faster, desperate for release. Jim thrust up with frustrated force, and Blair came with a cry, moaning with the sharp ecstasy of his orgasm. He felt Jim shake beneath him at the same time, coming silently, almost grimly.

Blair lay on top of Jim, waiting for his own anger to dissipate. Jim didn't move, and Blair raised his head to look down at Jim's face. It was closed off, and Blair rolled away, defeated. He got up, his damp jeans sticking to him uncomfortably. "Jesus, Jim." He struggled to catch his breath. "I know it all sucks. But I didn't do it on purpose! I love you, I would never do that to you. Use you like that."

"You think that makes it okay? Easier for me to deal with?" Jim looked at him with something like amazement on his face. "You use me every goddamn day, Sandburg."

"And you don't use me? That's just fucking great, Jim. You think the dissertation was such a terrible thing? Try getting along without the stuff we learned while I was writing it." And with that parting shot, he had gone downstairs, to sleep alone in his old, too-small bed.

Where he was now, surrounded by underwear. One last deep, calming breath, and then he got up and started to clear a space for Jim's clothes. Because today Jim was coming home, and everything was different. The dissertation no longer existed, Blair didn't know if he even existed anymore. Blair had no idea who he was supposed to be now.

*

Blair couldn't sleep. He scooted a little closer to Jim, close enough to feel his body heat, but not close enough to wake him. The ride home from the hospital had been quiet, and so had the afternoon and evening that followed. Jim seemed preoccupied, and Blair had been content to leave him alone. They undressed for bed side by side, and once in bed, Jim leaned over, kissed Blair softly and said, "Good night, Chief." Then he turned on his side and his breathing became deep and regular within minutes. Blair wasn't as lucky. Thoughts chased themselves around in his head, and fear fluttered in his gut like a crazed butterfly.

*

Jim looked up from his desk and stretched his left leg. It was stiff and sore, and he needed the cane to walk, but he no longer needed to tinker with his dials to keep the discomfort at a manageable level. Today he'd come into the station to catch up on some of the never-ending paper work. He hated paperwork. This was a hell of a way to enjoy his liberation from the tyranny of health care professionals, but it had to be done. He didn't have to like it, though.

Blair hovered by Jim's desk. Jim knew he was there, but ignored him. He was conscious of a momentary flash of irritation and he tried to suppress it, then thought, hell, why bother? He was justified in feeling a little pissy today. He didn't know why Blair was here. With Jim chained to a damn desk, there was no real reason for it.

Yesterday had felt odd, being home again with Blair, because it wasn't really Blair. It looked like Blair, smelled like him, but it didn't sound like him. His voice had a different timbre, lacked resonance, sounded flat and dull. Jim hadn't been able to bring himself to find out if he felt or tasted different. And it irritated the hell out of him, while at the same time made him want to pound the hell out of whoever he finally decided he could blame for all of this.

However, right now irritation was elbowing concern right out of the starting gate.

"Hey, Jim," Blair started to say. He put his hand on Jim's shoulder, and rubbed it softly, turning it into a caress. He moved closer. "Where did you put-"

Jim jerked away, out of his reach. "Shit, Sandburg," he hissed. "What the hell are you doing?" He glanced quickly around to see if anyone had noticed.

Startled, Blair yanked his hand away. "Sorry, man. I wasn't thinking."

"No kidding." Jim frowned in anger. "You haven't been doing much of that lately, have you?"

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Blair looked over at Megan, working at her desk, and lowered his voice. "I barely touched you, nobody noticed. Jesus, take a pill." Now Blair was frowning, too, his forehead creased in annoyance.

"Just back off, Sandburg. Go find something else to do, and someone else to do it with."

"Fine, whatever, man." Blair paused. "I wasn't trying to _out_ you, you know."

The sarcasm in Blair's voice grated harshly in his ears, and Jim didn't bother trying to rein in his temper. "Yeah well, you've already done it once this week, isn't that enough for you?"

Blair paled. "You asshole." He stood there, staring down at Jim with hurt, angry eyes. Jim looked away.

He felt Blair hesitate, felt him shrug, and then watched him turn away out of the corner of his eye. Blair looked around uncertainly, then drifted toward Megan's desk. Jim sighed. He was being an asshole, but everything was so fucked up. He wanted to let go of his anger, but every time he turned around, the fucking phone would ring, and his family, or some idiot from the press, would piss him off again.

Jim concentrated on the task at hand, paperwork dealing with Karl Zeller and his plunge off the roof of the police building. His irritation faded as he worked. He knew Blair touched him because he was used to doing it, and Jim usually welcomed it, even needed it, but right now he felt self-conscious about the whole relationship. He wasn't ashamed, or embarrassed, exactly, but he didn't think he could handle any more exposure. It didn't take a fucking genius to figure out why. Even he could dredge up that much insight.

He looked up, but Blair was gone. Shit, he hadn't even heard him leave, hadn't noticed his absence, or missed the underlying sounds that he registered unconsciously most of the time. Damn.

For what seemed like the millionth time in the past three years, Jim wondered what his life would be like without the senses. He wondered what deities he had so karmically pissed off, what he had done, perhaps in a previous life, if you believed in that bullshit, to so annoy the cosmos, that he had been saddled with this responsibility.

"Stop whining," Jim could hear his inner Sandburg say. He had to smile. "You have a gift. Use it and stop bitching about it." He remembered saying similar words to his father last year- "I have a gift, Dad." But he didn't always trust himself with it. He needed Blair to validate it. Without Blair, he didn't even know if it was real. The flip side was that without Blair, maybe he wouldn't have to do it. Maybe it would all go away if only Sandburg would. His stomach clenched at the direction his mind was taking. That was not a path he wanted to go down. If he wanted Blair, he would put up with the rest of it. It was worth it, most of the time. Not like he had a choice, really. Life without Blair was not an option.

The phone on his desk rang again. Jim closed his eyes. Shit. Now what? Too much to hope for a double homicide, or a bomb somewhere. Of course, with his leg, the only thing he could do about it was paper work.

Maybe it was a threat against the mayor.

But he wasn't that lucky these days; it was his brother. Jim listened to him with resigned patience. "I know, I know. Tell them we're not really brothers and you've never seen me before in your life. I really don't care what you tell them. Just give it some more time." The muscles in his forehead were tightening up, and he rubbed at them without effect. "Stephen. I'm trying to work here. Can we do this later? Fine." He hung up the phone. Joel was watching him from the door of Simon's office. "Joel..."

Joel nodded. "Go on. Get out of here."

Jim nodded gratefully at his friend, pulled on his jacket, grabbed his cane, and got the hell out of Dodge.

*

Blair struggled with the last box of books, trying to get inside the elevator before the door closed on him. Working up a sweat by carrying boxes all over town had helped exorcise most of his anger, but not the hurt. He knew Jim didn't _want_ to blame him for the way things were. Fat lot of good that did, Blair mused. What Jim wanted, how Jim thought he _should_ feel, and what he _did_ feel, were sometimes two very different things. Blair had decided to leave the station, to give Jim some space.

He probably shouldn't be hanging around there anyway. But he simply hadn't been able to resist the temptation to go in this morning. Blair guessed his days in Major Crimes were numbered and he wanted to soak up the place a bit, until he officially wasn't welcome anymore.

So he had gone to Rainier, finished cleaning out his office, and handed off his classes to Tina, the TA who was going to take them over. Now he was back at the loft, having lugged the rest of his shit up from his car. It had taken three elevator trips, and he heard the phone ringing from the hallway. No way was he dropping everything to answer it, so he let the machine get it. There was no one there, only hang-ups.

When the phone rang again, he eyed it warily. The caller ID was blocked, and he was tempted not to answer it, but he was hoping it was Naomi, calling from wherever the hell she was now. He had been having trouble locating her for the past several days, which was conceivably a good thing, considering how pissed he was right now. He hoped it wasn't another reporter, or even worse, another one of his students asking him what the hell they were supposed to do with their research paper now that their teacher had declared himself to be a fraud.

"Hello?"

"Jimmy?" Terrific. Just what he needed. His luck certainly sucked lately. Maybe he could disguise his voice, or pretend to be the answering machine, which he should have let pick up in the first place. "No, Mr. Ellison. Jim's at work right now. This is Blair. Can I take a message?" His attempts at keeping his voice neutral were only partially successful. He was sure William Ellison could catch the trace of trepidation that seemed his constant companion these days.

There was a pause. Then, "Tell my son I called. Did you give him my last message?" The tone was suspicious, accusatory. "Does he know I called yesterday?"

"Yes, Mr. Ellison, I told him." Blair fought down a surge of anger. He didn't think he had any right to be angry at Jim's father, at least not for his own sake. For Jim's sake, though, now that was a different story. But shit, the old bastard had been right about a few things, hadn't he?

"Well, tell him again." The voice was hard, unforgiving. "Why are you still there, anyway, Sandburg? Haven't you done enough damage? What do you want from my son?"

Blair thought, what do I want? Ah, now that's a very good question. The question of the day. The question of the week. The question of my life. "I want him to be safe," Blair finally answered. "Just like you do."

"You certainly have a funny way of making that happen," Ellison shot back.

Blair closed his eyes. He really didn't want to have this conversation. "Listen, Mr. Elllison. I'll tell Jim you called." He sighed. "I'm sorry, you know. I never meant for this to happen."

"Well, that's easy to say. But now everyone knows. I told Jimmy what would happen if people found out. They'd think he was a freak. They'd point, they'd stare, and -"

"Are you worried about Jim, or are you just embarrassed because you're the father of a freak?" Blair knew he'd made a mistake the minute the words were out of his mouth.

"Listen, you son of a bitch," Ellison started.

"Mr. Ellison," Blair interrupted. "I'm sorry. For everything. I'll tell Jim you called." He disconnected and put the phone down. Shit. He needed to control himself better than that. It didn't matter what he thought, he couldn't fight with Jim's father.

Blair made sure the answering machine was on, then went to the bedroom. He lit some incense, put on his headphones with the new CD he had bought last week, and lay down on the bed. He was still there, an hour later, when Jim came home from the station.

*

Jim opened the door to the loft with a sense of relief. Peace at last. As long as Blair was smart enough to have the answering machine on.

"Chief?" He followed the smell of incense to the French doors. The sight of his partner, shoes off, headphones on, eyes closed, made him smile. Until he looked closer and saw the lines of tension around Blair's mouth. He had hoped he'd seen the last of those lines.

Jim made his way over to the bed, stepping over piles of books, boxes, artifacts and all the other detritus of Blair's previous life scattered on the floor of the room. He looked down at Blair, contrition warring with increasingly familiar irritation. He didn't want Blair to be miserable. He wanted to soothe those lines away, make Blair's face relax into its usual cheerful countenance. He poked a bare foot lightly with his cane. "Chief. I'm home."

Blair's eyes opened and he looked unsmilingly up at Jim. Whatever he saw in Jim's face made him relax a bit, and then he did smile, just a little. The tension lines around his mouth disappeared, only to reappear around his eyes. "Hey, Jim. You're early." He frowned. "Something wrong? You having problems with your leg?"

"No, Chief, everything's fine. I'm just tired, and I needed to come home." He looked at Blair appraisingly. "How about you?"

Blair looked away. "I'm just...you know. Practicing what Naomi preaches. Letting go. Detaching."

"Well, detach yourself from those headphones, and come help me with dinner."

*

In spite of Jim's gimping around, they made dinner together without doing much damage to either themselves or the kitchen. Blair made a salad and sliced some bread, while Jim grilled tuna steaks. Jim hated making salads.

As they sat down to eat, the phone rang. They both tensed. "The machine can get it," Blair said.

As Jim nodded his head in acquiescence, he heard his father's voice come over the answering machine. "Jimmy? Jim, if you're there, pick up. Damn it, Jim, I want to talk to you. I know Sandburg didn't tell you I called. Jimmy!"

Jim glanced sharply at Blair, then pushed his chair back and stalked -as well as he could-over to the phone, and snatched it up. "Dad! What the hell are you talking about?" Blair studied his plate.

"I've been calling you, Jimmy. Why haven't you called me back?" His voice softened, and he said hesitantly, "I wanted to ask how you're doing."

"I'm fine. I've been busy, Dad. I went into work for a while today. Anyway, we just talked two days ago. Of course Blair told me you called. Why wouldn't he?"

"Why should he? He screwed everything up, Jim. Why is he still there? Why don't you kick his ass out? What he did--"

"Is that why you called, Dad? Because if it is..." Jim shifted the phone to his other ear with an abrupt movement.

"No, no...Jimmy, the press is _still_ calling here. I don't know what they want anymore. I told them it's not true, but they won't leave me alone." His father sounded bewildered and aggrieved at the same time. He also sounded tired, Jim realized. That realization gave him the patience he needed to get through the rest of this conversation. He hoped. His father could be pretty damned persistent.

"Give it some time, Dad. It's only been a week since Blair's press conference."

"Do you really think that's going to do any good, Jim? Why should anybody believe him? Either way? Why didn't you stop him? I told you what would happen if-"

Patience flew right out the window, leaving a vapor trail he could almost see. "Dad. We're in the middle of eating dinner here, and I don't want to have this conversation." There was no way he was going to sit here and listen to his father say I told you so, and then blame Blair for everything.

"Fine, Jimmy. I'm sorry I bothered you. We'll talk about this another time."

"At no time," Jim said succinctly. "Goodnight."

As he hung up the phone, Jim looked at Blair again. He was slouched down in his chair, lips pressed tightly together. It dawned on Jim that his father was capable of making Blair feel just as shitty as he could make Jim feel.

"When did you talk to him, Chief?" His voice was rough with vexation, and he cleared his throat.

"This afternoon." Blair didn't look up. He toyed with his salad. "I was gonna tell you he called."

"I know. Not a problem," Jim said softly. Blair looked up at him then. _"He's_ not a problem."

"Right, Jim." Blair went back to sifting through his salad with inordinate interest.

"I _know_ he can be a real pain in the ass, Chief. Don't let him get to you." Jim spoke almost aggressively, nettled at being caught between his partner and his father.

"Yeah, but he's probably right, you know. You said so yourself, Jim. I don't know what I was thinking-"

"Blair. Enough. We've been through all that already. Water under the bridge, Chief." Jim stopped, aware of his unfortunate choice of metaphor. Blair grinned. Jim rolled his eyes and continued. "We're not playing the blame game here, anymore, Sandburg." At least he was _trying_ not to, although if today was any indication, he was apparently failing miserably.

"I guess." Blair stared off into space for a moment. "I keep getting these phone calls, Jim. From my students. I feel like such a schmuck." He sighed. "This really bites, you know?"

Jim did know. He knew exactly. "Eat your dinner."

Blair brought his attention back to Jim. He tried a smile, and picked up his fork. "The tuna steaks are good. You didn't dry 'em out this time."

Jim glared, then smiled back. "Fuck you very much, Sandburg." He hesitated. "Don't worry about my father, Chief. He can deal. He's just worried about me, you know?"

Blair snorted. "Yeah, I know." He was silent for a minute. "I think he should have dealt a long time ago, Jim." Another pause. "Parents. They worry, they think they know what they're doing, and then they just make things worse."

Jim looked at Blair with interest. "Which one of 'em are you talking about, Chief? One's as bad as the other." He waited for Blair to say something, suddenly feeling like he was treading on shaky ground here. Jim wasn't a complete idiot, and he was pretty damn mad at Naomi, and Blair knew it, but now was _not_ the time to get into that discussion. Not to mention, Blair was clearly not any happier with Jim's father than Jim was with Blair's mother.

Jim nodded at the food. "Eat," was all he said.

*

"Fuck!" Blair spat the word out as he looked at the mess on the kitchen floor. "Two fucking plates. I'm sorry, Jim." His voice hitched as he spoke.

Jim watched Blair keep a tenuous grip on his emotions. He frowned at Blair's over-reaction to a couple of broken plates.

"Blair-" The phone interrupted him. He let the machine get it.

"Detective Ellison. This is Sam Harris with Newsweek again. I really just wanted a few minutes of your time, Detective. No big deal, here. Just a brief chat about Mr. Sandburg's book." There was a pause. "Please get back to me, Mr. Ellison. I believe you have my number."

"Christ! How many times do I have to tell them?" Jim said. "Morons!" He drew a deep breath. He wondered if it would ever stop. How long would this go on until they forgot the story of "The Sentinel," whatever the hell they thought that meant? Now, no one would ever know what it really meant, Blair had told them none of it was true. The dissertation explained it all, but the dissertation was a good piece of fiction.

Blair glanced up from the floor, where he was carefully picking up broken crockery. "I'm sorry, man."

"I swear to Christ, Sandburg, if you apologize one more time-" Jim broke off. Blair stared bleakly down at his hands. Shit. "Blair," Jim started. Then stopped, at a loss for words. This subdued Sandburg was someone Jim was not familiar with, and he didn't think he wanted to get to know him any better.

Blair looked up. "It's okay, Jim. It'll be fine." He stood, dumping the broken plates in the trash. Then he winced and looked down at his hand.

"For crying out loud, Sandburg, now what? Let me see that."

"It's only a cut, Jim." By now there was a substantial amount of blood dripping off Blair's hand, pooling on the countertop. "Let go."

"Hold still, Chief." Jim grabbed a dishtowel and wrapped it around Blair's hand. "Go on, go clean that up." He shook his head.

*

While Blair was in the bathroom, Jim finished the dishes and mopped up the blood. The smell of Blair's blood raised the hair on the nape of his neck. It made him think Blair was hurt, injured, in trouble, although he knew better, knew it was just a small cut. At the same time, the odor was compelling, smelling of life, and intimate knowledge. He knew all of Blair's scents. Smell was the sense that gave him the most input, the most access, sought after or not. He knew the scent of Blair's sweat, his arousal, his tears, all the secret smells that encapsulated Blair's essence. He knew it was an invasion of privacy, but he couldn't have stopped the barrage of sensory input even if he wanted to. He didn't want to. And right now, he wanted more.

He felt edgy, smelling the blood, feeling alive, filled with the need to do something. Something to Blair. It had been too long. They had been so angry with each other, too angry to make love. There had only been that one time, since the news had broken, and that was not making love. That had been using sex as a way to release their anger, the only way they could touch each other without pain, and even that had been a near thing. Jim wanted to ease the memory of that night, to soften its edges.

The bathroom door opened and Blair emerged, looking sheepish. "Sorry, Jim-" he jumped at the sharp crack of Jim's palm hitting the countertop. "I..." His mouth closed with a snap. He turned on his heel and went into the bedroom. Jim closed his eyes briefly, then followed him in.

"Blair, look, _I'm_ sorry, okay? I know things have been rough lately. I don't want to make them worse. I was out of line today." He studied Blair for a moment. "I didn't mean anything by it, Chief. I really don't mind...look, you can touch me, okay? I just feel like a raw nerve here, you know?" Blair stayed silent. He looked tired, with that deer in the headlights look that Jim was starting to despise. His shirt was dirty, dusty looking, and the lines of tension around his mouth and eyes stood out. He had a small bandage on his left hand. The smell of blood was fainter now, but it still hung around him like an aura. Jim felt adrenaline jolt through him. He shook his head to clear it. "What did you do this afternoon, Chief?"

Blair sat on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortable under Jim's scrutiny. "I got the last of the stuff from my office. Talked to Tina about my classes." He gestured to the boxes on the floor, the most recent additions to the piles of debris. "That's it, that's the end of it."

"Sorry I couldn't help you with that," Jim said.

"No problem, man. How _is_ your leg, anyhow?" Blair seemed relieved to have something else to talk about, and Jim let him change the subject.

"A few more days with the cane, the doc said. Then I'll be as good as new."

"Uh, Jim? No offense, man, but I think that window of opportunity has been closed for a while now."

Blair's pathetic attempt at humor relieved Jim, and he rewarded the effort with a snicker. "Watch it there, smart-ass."

Blair's smile was genuine, and it lit up his face. This time, his eyes crinkled with laughter, and Jim caught his breath. He heard Bud's voice, coming back to him over the years. _"Sometimes you hold back. It's as though you're afraid to trust yourself."_ But he trusted himself now. He trusted himself in this, at least.

His heart hammered in his chest, a classic fight-or-flight response to both his emotions and the blood lust coursing through him. "Blair."

His voice must have conveyed something of his intent to Blair, because those intense blue eyes got more intense, and Blair nodded, almost imperceptibly. He looked at Jim. "I love you, you know."

And Jim did know. Love explained what Blair had been trying to do. Jim hated the time spent on the dissertation, the research, and the tests. He hated Blair studying him so clinically, so dispassionately. He wanted passion from Blair. He wanted to be Blair's Holy Grail, because Blair was his. But it was hard to see unconditional love in academic jargon and dry diss-speak. But it had been done for him, to give what his father called his "nonsense and fantasies" legitimacy. Done to make Jim understand that there was nothing wrong with him, that he wasn't a freak. And then Blair had turned around and renounced everything for the same reason-love. It must have just about killed him to do that. No wonder the kid had been walking around in a daze for the past week.

Jim lowered himself to his knees in front of Blair. He parted Blair's thighs and moved closer. "It's gonna be okay, Blair. All of it." He leaned up and their lips met. He had been thinking about this ever since his anger faded this afternoon. Oh Jesus, he'd tried to imagine it, but his wildest thoughts were nothing compared to the vivid reality of it. Blair's lips were soft and warm, his mouth wet and inviting. Inviting him inside, consuming him, obliterating him, destroying him. And all the while the blood smell resonated like the bottom note of a fine red wine, persistent and intoxicating. He would never recover from this, and he felt a brief moment of panic. This was too much, there would be nothing left of him, Blair would leave nothing behind. Then the fear passed, and Jim exalted in the knowledge that they could still do this with love.

Blair touched him, his hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, and he could feel Blair's arousal through his jeans. Could feel the heat and hardness of him. Jim wasn't sure he could keep breathing, but he did, his body kept functioning, not letting him down. He rested on his elbows, kissing and kissing, trying in his turn to consume, to invite. Blair finally wrenched his head away, chest heaving, gasping for air. Their foreheads touched and Jim groaned. "Jesus, James," Blair ground out. "Jesus."

Jim moved against Blair's thigh, almost without being aware of it, the hard muscles giving him what he needed. Blair pulled himself farther up onto the bed, stopping Jim's frantic movements. "Wait! C'mon Jim, wait a minute."

He couldn't. He couldn't wait. He needed Blair now, it had been too long. If Blair changed his mind- Jim didn't think he could handle that. Blair moved away from him then, sitting up, pulling off his shirt, dusty with the remains of his previous life, his hopes and dreams. Jim grabbed at the shirt before Blair could toss it onto the floor, and he touched it reverently, smelling the dust, losing himself in Blair's sacrifice.

"Jim. Enough." Blair gently pulled the shirt from Jim's clutching fingers. He dropped it over the side of the bed, and began to unbutton Jim's shirt. His fingers trembled, and this brought Jim back to himself. He wasn't the only one having difficulty with control. The more Blair worked at the buttons, the less successful he was. After what seemed like a lifetime, Jim felt his shirt being pushed down his shoulders, and he quickly yanked it the rest of the way off. He reached a hand out and touched Blair's chest gently, reveling in the feel of those silky swirls of hair. He thumbed a nipple and Blair arched under his touch, and began to shake.

The sight of Blair, perilously close to the edge, almost out of control, sent his own desire sky-high. It blazed through him like fire, and he was gone. He pushed Blair back down on the bed and jerked open the buttons of his jeans with hands made clumsy with lust. The jeans and Blair's boxers went the way of the rest of their clothes, onto the floor.

Jim caught his breath at the sight of Blair laid out on the bed like an offering, waiting for Jim to take his pleasure. Blair's eyes were closed, his lips were parted, and his breathing was erratic, trying to keep up with his heartbeat. His cock was perfect, engorged and beautiful. A shiver went through him, as if he were aware of Jim's heated gaze. Another bolt of desire shot through Jim, and he moved with need. He ran his hands down Blair's sides, then grasped his waist and urged him over onto his stomach. He bent forward and pressed several kisses on the back of Blair's neck. The sensation of Blair's warm skin touching his lips was so sweet, almost more than he could bear. Blair shivered again and shifted his hips, his ass brushing Jim's erection. Jim rubbed his cock along the crease of Blair's ass. "Blair. I need you. I need this. Please, let me."

In answer, Blair raised his hips, pushing back against Jim, permission and entreaty in the same motion. Jim kissed his way down the middle of Blair's back, breathing in the warm fragrance emanating from his skin. Blair shuddered under his touch, legs trembling as he tried to spread them further, tried to raise his ass higher for Jim. Jim wanted to do things to him that he didn't have words for.

Jim rested his hand on the muscular cheeks, and they clenched in anticipation. "Don't move," he growled, then turned away, into the bathroom, getting what they needed. When he came back to the bedroom, he caught his breath at the sight that met his eyes.

Blair was still on his stomach, his ass moving rhythmically as he rubbed himself on the bedspread. A sound escaped Jim that made Blair stop all movement for an instant. "God, please, Jim. Don't make me wait." Blair's plea jolted through him and he felt dizzy for a moment. Jim shoved his pants down over his hips, too needy to waste time taking them off. He very carefully kissed Blair's right cheek, the smooth skin cool to his touch, then moved to prepare him. But he couldn't prepare himself for this, and the panic threatened to return. He was afraid he would fly apart, that he would cease to exist, that he would lose himself in Blair. He wanted this so much it scared him.

Blair moved impatiently. "Jim..."

Slowly, surely, completely, Jim pushed his cock into Blair, but it was he himself who was being penetrated, through his heart and into his soul. The hot, tight grip on his cock consumed him, it was all he knew, and he felt himself start to succumb to the temptation to drift away. "Blair? Blair..."

"Jim, I'm here, you're here, it's all okay. Deep breath, Jim, that's it." That voice, that unshakable anchor, kept him steady. As always. He started moving, in and out, slowly at first, in and out, oh God, oh God, in and out, faster, picking up speed, his cock tingling, moving, pumping, his hips jerking rhythmically, harder and harder, in and out, God, and Blair wailed as Jim fucked him, loved him, took him, possessed him forever.

*

Breakfast was quiet, both men content to be together without saying anything. Blair seemed less lost than he had the previous night, but Jim still saw traces of uncertainty when he looked closely. Maybe it was because whatever goals Blair had were gone, suddenly and without warning. He needed something to replace them with. Jim needed to talk to Simon.

Jim got up from the table and carried his plate over to the sink. Blair followed him with his own empty plate. He smiled as Jim came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist.

"What's on your agenda today, Chief?" Jim asked, with his face buried in Blair's hair. Blair leaned back against Jim's chest.

"I don't know." Blair said, in a voice so low even Jim almost missed it. "I-I don't think I have anything to do today." Jim tightened his grip and Blair cleared his throat. "Well, I guess I could start to sort things out, go through the stuff I brought home." It took him a minute to continue. "I don't know where the hell to put anything, man. I don't know what the hell to do with it all." He sounded confused, like a kid with no clue as to why he was in so much trouble.

"We'll figure it out." Jim kissed the top of his head. "I think I'm going to go into the station for a while this morning. There's some paperwork from yesterday I didn't quite get finished."

"There always is, Jim."

"Okay, wise-ass." Jim hesitated. "You okay, Blair? Was last night okay?"

"You mean am I okay with being fucked senseless? More than." A shiver went through Jim at those words. "Seriously, it...helped. Okay?" Blair smiled. "Go. What do you want for dinner? I'll pick up some stuff later."

"Something edible, Sandburg. Something I recognize. That's all I ask." And Jim closed the door of the loft on the comfortingly familiar sight of Blair flipping him off.

*

Blair was just hanging up the last of the damp towels in the bathroom when he heard the knock at the front door. He opened it to find William Ellison standing there. His eyes narrowed. "Mr. Ellison. Good to see you again."

"Cut the crap, Sandburg. Where's Jim?"

"You just missed him. He went to the station."

"Damn." William looked at Blair speculatively. "Well, as long as I'm here, you and I might as well have a little talk."

Blair sighed. This was so not good. He gestured at Jim's father, motioning him inside. "There's still coffee."

"No, thank you."

They each sat on a couch, sizing each other up like rival guard dogs, jealously patrolling the same property.

Blair broke first. He looked down at his clasped hands. "I didn't mean for it to get out. I meant to protect him. Nobody was supposed to know it was him." He looked up, into William's angry eyes. "I tried to fix it."

"Well, it's not working so far. I told Jimmy, I knew this would happen if he-"

"Does that make you feel better?" Blair interrupted. "That you can say I told you so? How many times are you going to say that to Jim? Will it fix anything, or make the press stop bothering you?"

"I don't have to listen to this from you, Mr. Sandburg. You seem to be in my son's life for some reason, but I'll be damned if I can figure out what it is." William fixed him with a piercing gaze, and Blair wondered if Jim had felt that same penetrating look when he was a child. If so, it explained a lot.

"I've been trying to fix the damage _you've_ done, Mr. Ellison." Shit. Not good, not good. But the anger he felt towards this man every time Jim held back, every time he struggled to believe in himself, got the better of him. "Your son is not a freak. He was born with something very special. Do you have any idea how hard it's been for him to accept that?" Blair's hands struggled to make his point. "There are plenty of times when he wants it all to go away. He keeps having to choose, over and over. But it's hard for him, he sees himself as flawed because of it. Why do you suppose that is, Mr. Ellison?" Blair's jaw clenched so tightly he thought he was Jim for second.

"You're not putting this on me, you son of a bitch. If he kept quiet about his abilities, if he just didn't _use_ them...."

"You don't know what you're talking about. Did you pay any attention at all when he was growing up? He had something special, but he didn't know what to do with it. And he thought you didn't believe him, and he couldn't come to you for help. His own father." Blair's voice shook with anger.

William was deathly pale, tense and still. After a pause that Blair was sure would never end, he said, "I tried to keep him safe. I _did_ keep him safe. From people like _you_ , people who would _use_ him. You used him, so you could be famous. You tried to get rich off my son."

"My ass." Blair stood up. "I think you'd better go. This conversation is over."

William got to his feet. "For now. Tell Jim I was here." He was out the door before Blair could say another word.

Blair slumped back onto the couch. That son of a bitch was dangerous. If he kept pushing Jim, saying, "I told you so," every five minutes, where would that leave them? Where would that leave Blair? "Thanks for everything, Chief, but I think we're done here. This whole Sentinel thing is overrated. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

Blair didn't even want to think about William Ellison's reaction if he discovered the more...personal aspects of his relationship with Jim.

*

Jim paused in the hallway outside Simon's hospital room. He hoped he had come up with something that Simon would agree to, but with Simon, you never knew, especially where Sandburg was concerned.

"Jim, get your butt in here. Stop lurking in the hallway." Simon's growl sounded diminished, but not vanquished. Jim smiled and limped into the room. Simon sat ensconced in the only chair in the room, looking rather regal, surrounded by IV poles and draped in a colorful striped bathrobe.

"Hey, Simon. Looking good." Simon did look decidedly improved. He no longer appeared faded, and he had a definite gleam in his eye. "Got your hearing dialed up, Sir?"

"Heaven forbid!" Simon rolled his eyes. "About time you got your ass in here to see me again, Detective. Where's the kid?"

"He's home, I think. Doesn't have anywhere else to go right now."

"I know. I've been giving that some thought." Hence the gleam, Jim thought.

"Me, too, Simon." Jim wished there were another chair. His leg wasn't 100% yet, and he felt awkward, standing there shifting from foot to cane to foot again. "I have an idea. But I need you on this one, sir." The sudden difficulty in keeping his voice steady surprised him.

"Jim, yours wasn't the only ass he saved with that press conference." Simon reached for his call light. "Get another chair in here and we'll figure this thing out."

*

It was mid-afternoon when Jim got back to the loft. Blair was gone, he must be shopping, Jim thought. A note in Blair's scrawl waited in the kitchen.

Jim - your father was here this morning.

You've got to talk to him. Go see him. Please."

"Please" was underlined twice. Damn. He wasn't sorry he had missed that conversation. Both his father and Blair were formidable opponents, although Jim might have given his father the edge this morning. Jim felt a surge of anger. One step forward and two steps backwards, that pretty much described any progress he and his father were making towards an improved relationship. A nice heart-to-heart in the middle of a murder case, countered by a leaked dissertation and a press conference. He heard his father's words from last year- "I wish I could go back and change it all." He had thought his father meant it, but now, when there was real trouble, William Ellison reverted to form. Jim could handle his ire, he was used to it, but he didn't like the idea of Blair being exposed to it.

Damn Sandburg and his wretched dissertation--he should have known it was cursed from the start.

*

 _“Jimmy! Watch me, Jimmy!" Stevie let go of the handlebars at the same time he lifted his feet off the pedals. He laughed gleefully as the bike wobbled along the sidewalk. Jimmy started to run towards him, yelling, "Stevie, look out!"_

 _Stevie's bike swerved to the right, and before he could get his hands and feet back where they belonged, he was heading full speed into the tall hedge running parallel to the yard._

 _Jimmy almost got there in time, but they ended up in a tangle of limbs and bike parts, sticking out from the hedge. Stevie was wailing in his ear, and Jimmy clutched his head, covering his ears with his hands. He smelled blood, and his stomach twisted. His left knee felt like someone was crunching it with huge, hot teeth, tearing the flesh out in big chunks. His head spun and he groaned, "Stevie, shut up."_

 _As Grace came running out of the house, looking worried, William was right behind her, looking annoyed._

 _Jimmy knew not to cry, but he couldn't help it. As the tears slid down his cheeks, he figured he was lucky he wasn't barfing all over Stevie._

 _Grace got to them first, exclaiming, "For heaven's sake, what have you boys done to yourselves?" Together she and William untangled legs and arms, branches and handlebars. Grace wrapped her arms around Stevie and crooned, "There, there, Sweetie, don't' cry. Mommy'll make it all better. Come on, there now, don't cry."_

 _As Grace and Stevie disappeared into the house, Jimmy turned anxious eyes toward his father. William looked down at him with contempt. "Get up and stop sniveling. It's only a scratch. Don't be a baby."_

 _Jimmy tried, but it hurt too much. His father grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, shaking him, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his arm, hurting him there, too. He cried harder, and his father pushed him away, letting go suddenly, and Jimmy sprawled on the ground again. "You make me sick."_

 _His father's words echoed in Jim's head as he sat in his truck, parked in front of the house he and Stephen had grown up in. He shook his head to clear it._

 _All I ever got from you was that there was something wrong with me._  
Jesus, these memories did him no good. He steeled himself, took a deep breath, and got out of the truck.

William Ellison opened the door and blinked. "Jimmy. Come on in. It's good to see you again, son."

Jim entered the house behind his father. Their footsteps echoed in the foyer as they headed towards the living room. He remembered those echoes from his childhood. He remembered zoning on them, much to his father's annoyance. He smiled ruefully.

If only he'd had Blair back then.

William saw his smile, and smiled tentatively in return. "Can I get you something to drink, Jimmy?"

"No thanks, Dad."

They settled into opposite chairs in the formally decorated living room.

"Jim-"

"Dad. I'm sorry you're still getting hassled. I thought they'd give it up by now. I guess they think it's too good a story to abandon just yet." He looked over at his father. "Can't you be patient, Pop, just a little while longer?"

"But they keep calling Stephen, too." Now William's eyes were full of censure. "He's busy, he doesn't need this. What are his business partners going to think? This could give him real problems at work, Jimmy. And it's not his-"

"Not his what, Dad?" Jim interrupted. "His problem? His fault? Damn it, stop doing that. Stop playing us against each other!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Jim." William didn't meet his eyes.

"Did you know, Dad," Jim said, matter-of-factly, sounding like Sandburg recounting a fascinating, yet impersonal tale of an obscure mating ritual involving naked women and tribal elders, "that I can tell if a person is lying by the sound of their heartbeat? I can smell their sweat change, and I can see them blush, even just a little bit."

The slight flush on his father's face faded as he paled at Jim's words. Maybe his father _had_ known that. He had been formidable in his denial of Jim's senses. Maybe there was an element of self-preservation in that denial.

"Dad, I am what I am. Every time I try and fight that, it ends in disaster. I can't change that. So things are a little fucked up right now." Jim rubbed his palms over his thighs. "If we all keep our heads, it'll be okay. Sandburg went a long way towards trying to make that happen."

"What's _with_ this Sandburg, anyway? Who is he?" William's voice was waspish. "He seems like some kind of charlatan to me. I think he's using you, Jimmy. He's trying to take advantage-"

"Dad, you don't have any idea what you're talking about." Jim's lips tightened and his jaw twitched.

"Then tell me, Jimmy. You tell me what's going on."

Jim's hands tightened involuntarily into fists and he caught his breath. His father had never asked him that before. He never wanted to know what was going on. Jim felt a fleeting impulse to tell him everything. _Yeah, Dad, Sandburg helps me with my senses, and plays guide with my animal spirit. I've been letting him study me, and we're fucking each other on a nightly basis._ He swallowed. Yeah, maybe when hell froze over.

"Dad, I think I changed my mind. I could use some coffee if you've got any."

They found themselves at the kitchen table, coffee mugs in front of them. Jim searched for the words to explain.

"Dad, after Bud's death, I guess the senses went dormant. Blair says I repressed them. It was easier not have to deal with...everything." Jim wrapped his hands around his coffee mug, the warmth soaking in, soothing. He watched the steam curl up from the hot liquid. "Three years ago, when they came back 'online,' as Blair calls it, I had no clue what was happening. I thought I was losing my mind. I didn't know what to do. I even told Simon...well, anyway. Then I found Blair--or rather he found me." Jim smiled and looked up at his father. "He saved my life. It wasn't easy, for either of us. The dissertation was for him, sure, but all the research, the tests, helped us figure out how to control things. Because without control, the senses are useless. Dangerous."

His father was staring at him. "But if it's all so dangerous, why do it? Can't you just ignore it? Let it all go, again? Then you wouldn't need Sandburg, and things could go back to normal."

Jim stood up abruptly, unable to sit still while his father echoed his own mutinous thoughts. "No, Dad, I can't just ignore it! It doesn't work that way. What the hell's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with _me?_ What's the matter with _you_ that you let this happen? I know I made a lot of mistakes when you and Stephen were growing up. But all this-this is exactly what I was afraid of."

"So your worst fears have been realized, Dad. And it's a bitch. But you're only making it worse." He turned away from his father. "Just leave it alone. Or do you enjoy being right, so you can say I told you so?"

William pushed his chair back from the table threateningly. His voice was low and dangerous as he said, "You watch it right there, Jimmy. You watch your mouth."

Jim's stomach clenched. That voice still had the power to intimidate, to make him feel wrong.

 _I warned you about your fantasies, didn't I?_

 _“I did see him. Sometimes I can see and hear things."_

 _"No, you can't. Nobody can. Jimmy, this is not a game. You hear me?"_

William stood, leaning with his clenched fists on the kitchen table, glaring at his son. "That's what Sandburg said. You get that from him, Jimmy? That I want to be right? You think that's what this is all about?" He hit the table with his fist. "I'm your _father_ , Jimmy, and don't you forget that!"

Jim looked down, the table suddenly swimming in front of his eyes. The sting of tears felt all too familiar in this room. He blinked and said, "We're not getting anywhere like this, Dad."

The two men stood motionless for a moment, the air vibrating with tension. Then William took a deep breath, his temper back under control. "Sit down, son." Jim finally looked at him. "Please."

Slowly, Jim lowered himself back down onto his chair. The urge to leave was almost physical, but he made himself stay by a sheer act of will.

His father had said please.

After a time, William said, in a milder tone of voice, "How did Sandburg's dissertation become public knowledge? If he's so interested in helping you, how did that happen?"

"Long story, Dad. It wasn't all his fault." His throat tightened. "But don't talk to me about Blair using me. Because he saved me."

His father studied him. "I really didn't know, Jimmy. How hard it's been."

"Of course you didn't, Dad, you didn't want to. And I had enough to deal with without having to deal with you." Jim tried to control the rancor in his voice, but the frustration broke through. He shook his head. "Jesus, Dad. How could you have been paying so little attention?" He stood up again. "I really need to go now. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"I know." William looked his son in the eye. "I'd like to get past this, Jimmy. For both of us."

Jim nodded, not trusting his voice. He turned, hesitated for a moment, and then headed out of the kitchen.

His father watched from the doorway as Jim left the house. William looked lonely, standing there, and Jim felt a brief flash of sympathy for him.

Jim sat in his truck, breathing hard, as if he had just chased down a suspect, one that was very intent on getting away. Shit, maybe Sandburg's panic attacks were contagious.

God damn it. He loved his father, but that love had always hurt, and nothing about that seemed to have changed.

*

Blair stirred the pot of soup on the stove, not paying much attention to what he was doing. He wanted Jim to come home, but he dreaded it, too. He had to admit to himself that he was afraid. Afraid of Jim's father, of his ability to make his son feel defective.

And truth be told, Blair was worried that those feelings William so inevitably stirred up would pull Jim away from him. Being a freak could be defined in more ways than one, including sexual orientation. Blair had been dealing with that particular fact of life for a long time, but it was pretty new to Jim. Repressed closet case finally comes out. God, he didn't even want to think about it. The way Jim reacted to the exposure of his Sentinel abilities was a pretty good indication of how he would react to exposure of his sexual preferences, at least where his father was concerned. And William Ellison's reaction was something Blair would just as soon not contemplate.

Jim and his father hadn't seen much of each other since last year, but Blair didn't like what spending time with his father did to Jim. He initially thought it was a good idea for them to try and work some things out, but being around his father made Jim feel inadequate, deficient somehow.

Blair kept his anger at William to himself, thinking it was really none of his business, but the last several days had made it difficult for him to keep thinking that. It was obviously very much his business if it was going to drive yet another wedge between them.

Blair knew Jim loved him, same as he knew he loved Jim, but was it enough? It could all blow up in their faces at any moment. One more thing going wrong might just do it. It wasn't Jim's fault. Jim reacted to events the only way he was capable of, the only way he knew how.

The sound of Jim at the door startled Blair from his reverie. He realized he was stirring the shit out of the soup, and had splattered it all over the stove.

"What the hell are you doing, Sandburg?" Jim's voice was harsh, critical.

Blair's hand stilled as he reached for the sponge. Please, Jim, he thought. Don't do this. "Just making dinner, Jim."

"I hope you're planning on cleaning that mess up." Jim's voice was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down right there in the kitchen.

"No, I was just gonna leave it there, Jim, let it congeal and get all hard and it'll be stuck on there forever, man." The comeback was almost automatic, but Blair's heart really wasn't in it. "I don't wanna do this, Jim, okay? I'm tired."

"Do what, Sandburg? What's the matter, you can't take a little criticism? You can dish it out, but you can't take it, is that it? You can tell my old man how fucked up he is, but I can't tell you you're a slob?" By this time, Jim had his keys in the basket and his jacket on the hook. He advanced on Blair.

"What are you talking about, Jim? I didn't say-"

"Save it, Chief." Jim stopped a few feet away, eyeing Blair speculatively. "You told him he likes to be right."

"What, this is a news flash for you, Jim? How many years did you live with the man?"

Jim covered the distance between them so fast Blair didn't see him move. "Don't you presume to know, Sandburg. Don't you presume to know anything!"

Blair's hands pushed at Jim's shoulders. "Back off, man. It's not my fault your father is a prick." He turned back to the pot on the stove.  
"Just like it's not my fault your mother is a nitwit?"

Blair spun back around. "You leave Naomi out of this," he warned.

"Why? Cards on the table, Chief. If it hadn't been for her..." Jim didn't finish his sentence, he just turned around and headed down the hall. "Clean up that mess."

The bathroom door slammed on the words.

Fuck.

*

When Jim came out of the bathroom, Blair was still in the kitchen, standing where Jim had left him, leaning on the counter with both hands, head bowed.

"Shit, Chief. I'm sorry." He came up behind Blair and put his hands on his shoulders. For a moment, Blair didn't move, then he slowly leaned his head back to rest against Jim's shoulder. They stood there in silence, neither one of them knowing what to say.

Finally, Blair raised his head. "I've got to clean this up."

Jim let go of Blair's shoulders and stepped back. He felt awkward, and covered it by going to the refrigerator for a beer. "You want one?"

Blair shook his head. He scrubbed at the spilled soup on the stove, keeping his attention on what he was doing, not looking at Jim.

Jim leaned against the counter, watching him. "Blair." His voice came out in a croak, and he had to clear his throat. Blair kept working. "He was so angry, and I can't...I don't know how..."

Blair glanced up at that. He looked lost again, unsure. Jim held out his arms. "Please."

Blair's expression lightened a bit, and he walked into Jim's arms. He burrowed his head under Jim's chin, as if trying to get as close as possible. "I knew when he was here this morning that I shouldn't talk to him. But he insisted, and I guess I got a little ...well. But sometimes, Jim, when I watch you...I just...get so mad at him."

"He's not so bad, Chief. He means well, most of the time." Jim rested his cheek on the top of Blair's head. "How long till the soup's ready?"

"It can simmer for as long as you want." Then Blair said quietly into Jim's chest, "I'm sorry about Naomi, Jim." They stood there, not speaking, just feeling, trying to reconnect.

Jim pulled back and put his hands in Blair's hair, tilting his head up, caressing the soft curls. His fingertips tingled, and he let himself feel as his hands were ensnared in the silken web. Blair raised his face and kissed him, lips trembling. He tasted of fear, and Jim murmured reassurance against his mouth. Blair murmured back, pleas and remorse and declarations, and Jim's lips vibrated with it. He opened himself up further, feeling the sounds, tasting Blair's emotions. They stood there forever, just holding on.

*

After dinner, they sat on the couch, close but not touching. They watched the fire for a while, then Blair sighed. "So, is your dad gonna be okay with things, Jim?"

Jim looked at Blair, then returned his gaze back to the fire. "I guess. I don't know. We talked." He shrugged.

They sat in silence, Blair waiting.

"He's just upset about the publicity, Chief. Everything he claims he's always worried about has happened. People found out, decided I was a freak. When it all dies down, he'll be fine."

"Right." Blair studied his fingernails. "He thinks it's all my fault, doesn't he?"

"It doesn't matter what the hell he thinks. He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything about it."

"But he was right. People did think...the things he was afraid of when it became public knowledge. He was right, and I proved it." There was pause, and then Blair said in a low voice, "You were afraid of the same thing."

Jim got up and walked over to the window. He stood looking out at the lights in the bay. "I feel so damn exposed, Blair," he said in a low voice.

"You think I don't feel the same way, Jim? Hell, I've been exposed as a fraud, someone who would lie and cheat, for fame and fortune," Blair said with rising agitation. He stood up and began to pace. "At least what people think about you is the truth."

"The truth? That I'm a freak?" Jim turned to look at him, eyes narrowed.

"Don't be obtuse. People think you have special abilities, that you're a 'Sentinel.' And in case you hadn't noticed, they don't really think that any more."

"In case you hadn't noticed, Sandburg, some of them still do."

"And they'll get over it, Jim. Maybe you need to get over it, too. Maybe everybody needs to just get the fuck over it."

They stood glaring at each other. Blair was so damn tired of this. It was time to knock it off, already. He made a face at Jim. "You know, sometimes I can't believe what an asshole you are."

"Takes one to know one, Sandburg."

Blair snorted. "What grade are you in, Jim?" He moved closer, got up into Jim's face. "And stop calling me Sandburg!"

Jim's lips twitched. "You gonna make me?"

"I could. Easily." Blair's smile faded. "I think we both got fucked, man. Sometimes shit just happens, you know?"

Jim sighed. "I guess." He moved back to the couch. "Come here."

Blair stood looking at him, debating. Then he sat down and curled up against Jim's side. They watched as the fire died down, the embers glowing in the darkened loft. Jim lowered his head and kissed Blair. They kissed slowly and sweetly for a long time, and then Blair pulled away.

"What's my name?"

"Blair," Jim whispered. "Blair."

*

Shit, Jim thought, what the hell was that racket? He struggled to get out from under Blair, who didn't seem to be able to hear that awful din, and then realized it was the phone. And Blair did hear it, he was just ignoring it.

"Move it or lose it, Chief. I need to get that."

"Why?" Blair waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You have a masochistic bent I should know about? Leave it."

"It wasn't our phone, it was my cell. Might have been important."

"Then they'll call back. Hopefully much later. It's Saturday, who the hell is calling at this hour anyway?"

"It's not that early, you know, Sleeping Beauty." Jim kissed Blair into submission, then levered himself out of bed.

"You shit. Where are you going?"

"To face the day, Chief. Might as well get started."

Blair groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. Jim smiled and headed towards the kitchen.

He checked the voice mail on his cell. There was a message from Simon. "Get your ass out of bed, Ellison, I don't care if it is Saturday. Call me."

He did, while Blair was in the shower. Jim hung up, happy with the results. He wondered briefly if they were going about this all wrong, acting like they were throwing some kind of surprise birthday party for Sandburg, but that was the way Simon wanted it, at least for now. Jim shook his head, a little uneasy. They were even dragging Naomi into it, for Chrissakes. How thrilled would she be to see her little boy become a cop?

During breakfast, Jim's father called. "I was hoping you and Sandburg could come over today. Maybe for lunch. I'd really like to understand this, Jimmy. Maybe I could get to know Sandburg a little, too." William's voice was quiet, with an undercurrent of apology running through it.

Jim wasn't sure he was up for another confrontation so soon after the last one, but it didn't sound like his father was actually looking for a confrontation this time. "I'll be there. I'll talk to Blair. If he wants to, he can come along."

"That would be good, Jimmy. I'll look forward to it." He hung up.

Jim looked across the table at Blair and said, "Dad wants the both of us to come over. To talk." He shrugged. "It's up to you, Chief. You don't have to."

"I know that, Jim. But maybe it's a good idea. It could help."

Jim got up to pour another cup of coffee. He brought the pot back to the table and filled Blair's cup, too. As he turned back to the counter, Blair said, "What is it? There's something else, isn't there?"

"Not really." Jim smiled at Blair's snort of disbelief. "Okay, I was just thinking."

"About?"

"About us."

"What about us? Shit, Jim, don't make me pull teeth here."

"You mean you didn't minor in dentistry?" Jim sat back down at the table.

"Bite me. Come on, what the hell are you talking about?"

"It's not just the Sentinel stuff anymore, Blair. There's more to us now. There's...us."

"Were you thinking of telling your _father_ about us?" Blair's eyes were wide. "Are you out of your fucking _mind_ , Jim?"

"Maybe. I don't mean right now. I don't know...maybe..." Jim trailed off. He looked at Blair.

"He'll have a stroke, Jim. It'll make things worse, you know it will. It'll just give him more reason to hate me." Blair's heartbeat spiked, and that deer-in-the-headlights look was back in full force. Something inside Jim snapped at seeing that look again.

"I'm sick and fucking tired of this, Blair. I'm tired of being afraid. I'm sick of how he makes me feel!" Jim's voice was rising with every word, and he was shouting, and Blair didn't look afraid anymore, he looked determined, and a little bit angry. Jim closed his eyes and one harsh sob escaped his lips. "He's my father. Why can't he just love me?"

Blair was at his side, kneeling next to him, "He does, Jim. He loves you. He's just afraid, and he knows he's wrong, and I'm sorry, man, so sorry I made things worse."

Jim shook his head. "I love you. Never think that I don't. Never be afraid of him. There's no choice to be made here, Blair. Remember that." Blair's eyes were gentle, and he leaned up and kissed Jim on the forehead. Blair's gaze was unwavering. "We'll do whatever you want, Jim. However you want to play it."

*

William Ellison opened his front door. "Come in, come in. Sally has lunch just about ready, but let's go in the living room and have a drink."

Jim and Blair each accepted a glass of iced tea from Jim's father. He seemed nervous, fidgety, and they waited for him to sit down on the edge of one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. The three men sat quietly, drinking their tea and studying one another.

Finally, William cleared his throat. "I can't say that I'm happy about this turn of events. I know everyone has made a lot of mistakes, including myself. When you were younger, Jimmy...I was wrong. I know that." He stopped, and took a drink of his tea. He swallowed, then put the glass down on the small table next to his chair. Blair saw his hand shake. He glanced at Jim, and knew that Jim saw the same thing.

Shit, thought Blair suddenly. I hope no one sits in judgment of me when I'm old. He had an unsettling vision of people sitting around a room, waiting for him to explain himself, and he shuddered. This was not good karma, here. "Listen, Mr. Ellison, he said. "You and I got off to a bad start. Maybe we should try it again. We both want Jim to be safe. And I want him to be able to do his job the way he wants to."

Jim smiled at him, and Blair smiled back. "And I can't do my job without Blair. I need him." Jim's look was soft and intimate, and Blair thought that if William was paying attention, they wouldn't have to tell him anything at all.

Apparently he _was_ paying attention. William stared and Blair could see the realization hit him. He looked from Jim to Blair and back again. Jim was still looking at Blair.

"Jim." Blair cocked his head towards William. Jim glanced over, and his smile dimmed.

His father sat there, looking thunderstruck. Jim watched the play of emotions over his features, and thought, well shit, here it comes. The same damn speech, he could sense it.

 _People are going to think you're a freak. You understand? Huh? Is that what you want? For people to think there's something wrong with you?_

But his father surprised him. The anticipated explosion didn't come. He was quiet, watching his son and his son's lover. There was shock in his eyes, but he didn't say anything

Jim waited. Blair looked at William curiously. William closed his eyes. "Jesus, Jimmy." He smiled faintly. "You don't ask for much from an old man, do you?"

*

Monday morning it was colder than shit outside. Blair tried to stay in bed, but Jim nudged him to get up.

"I need to go into the station for a while today, Chief. Want to go with me?"

"I don't think so, man, thanks. I need to do a few things around here, and I'm still trying to get a hold of Naomi. I don't know where the hell she is now, she doesn't seem to be where I thought she was."

"Come in later then, and we'll grab some lunch. Say around one o'clock?"

"Sure," Blair agreed without enthusiasm. "I want to take a last look around anyway."

Jim smiled. He grabbed the front of Blair's robe and pulled him close. He kissed him fiercely, then released him, leaving him to try and catch his breath. "Don't be late," Jim said as he headed across the living room.

"You're such a shit, Ellison," Blair called after him, his voice husky with arousal. "Don't think I won't remember this. You owe me."

Jim paused by the door. "I know I do, Blair," he said, too softly to be heard. Then, smiling again, he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> The most important thing here is to thank Maggie, without whose beta I could never have done this. Her patience and encouragement were the only things that made this possible. I know the ending is kind of dumb, but so is the real ending of the ep. Thanks also to the person on P-L, I don't remember who, who described the ending of TSbyBS as a suprise birthday party for Blair thrown by Jim and Simon.


End file.
